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Any future Luke had mapped out for himself didn't make it through The Institute. No MIT, no doctorate by 21, no coming home to have Sunday dinners with his parents. Luke escaped but those visions of his future only came out the other side of the chimney.
Some days, Luke looks at Tim and wonders what kind of a man you have to be to go from zero kids to traumatized teenager in the span of two days plus however long it takes to sign on the dotted line. What kind of a man you have to be to know you have an ace-in-the-hole for almost any argument with that kid (the earnest, desperate "I want you to get to be a kid" that still stops Luke in his tracks, even when he's fighting tooth and nail to get to take a job for some spending money the way his friends are) and to use it sparingly.
Since The Institute, since he'd seen some of the darkest parts of what adults can be willing - and even happy - to do to kids, Luke has watched his friends' interactions with their parents closely, trying to figure out why some adults are borderline monsters and some adults are good people. He's seen the friction that comes with a parent's hopes and dreams and expectations for their children, and he wonders: what kind of a man do you have to be to have power over a kid who isn't even yours and to treat it like it's both precious and a high-voltage line? To treat it like something that you're honored to have but also like you'll only touch it if you have no other choice? What kind of a man you have to be to dedicate the rest of your life to a kid you barely know, much less one who can borderline read your mind?
On his dark days, his thoughts end up at Tony. The man who hit him for the first time. The man who didn't hesitate to use a stun gun or cattle prod at the first sign of resistance. The man whose disgusting glee Luke could feel as he was being suffocated, over and over.
He's seen Tim lay a man out flat with a single punch and felt the warmth of a stranger's coat within a minute of meeting. He's seen Tim stare down a man with a gun and felt a cool, gentle hand on his forehead as he drifted in and out of fevered sleep. He's seen Tim lift impossibly heavy weights at the gym and spend the night on the couch holding Nicky when he found out his birth mother had died. How can men like Tony and men like Tim be put in the same category?? How is it possible that they're the same species?
Luke can still remember - can never forget, even though he's tried - Tony's desire to wrap his hands around Luke's neck - any of the kids' necks - and squeeze. He liked Nicky best because he always gave him an excuse; he hated George because he always complied. He loved it when they cried. He loved it when they begged him to stop. He reveled in their tears and basked in their pain and wallowed in their fear.
Luke is glad he's dead.
Luke didn't see Tony die, didn't have a hand in it the way Nicky and Kalisha did - and sometimes he's certain the man is still alive and is after him. There are nights he has to either stay awake or curl up next to Tim in a way he hasn't curled up to anybody since he was maybe six just to keep the nightmares from eating him alive. The what ifs.
Tony didn't just like what he got to do to the kids at The Institute. He loved it. In a way that 14-year-old-Luke wasn't ready to find out existed in the world but his fledgeling TP abilities wouldn't let him not know.
Sometimes, in his dreams, Tony takes Tim instead of Hendricks and all Luke and Nicky find is Tim's cold, broken body. Sometimes, in his dreams, Tony finds him alone and does everything he'd ever dreamed of doing but couldn't because someone else was watching. His unspeakably cruel, impossibly dark desires that end with Luke choking on his own blood, begging to die. They're always different; there seems to be no end to them, no bottom of the deep well. Luke wakes up gasping for air and shaking and crying and wrapped in Tim's arms, and he's the only thing that can keep Luke from shaking apart. The littlest things seem to set him off: just the right(wrong) phrase or tone of voice; a hand moving toward him too fast when he isn't expecting it; a dull, throbbing headache accompanied by a moderate change in barometric pressure.
That's how he ends up here: sixteen and a half years old at his best friend's house, pajama'd up and ready for a monster movie marathon, cowering in the corner of the bedroom and gasping for breath.
He didn't even notice the headache creeping up on him. It's a Saturday night in October and a storm is rolling in, and he and Devon had loaded up on snacks at the convenience store earlier in the day. They've got sodas, they've got chips, they've got so many different kinds of candy! Mrs. Watson even dug some of their white Christmas lights out of the attic so they could turn off the ceiling light and have better ambiance.
Devon's parents had laughed at some of the titles the boys had on their list for the night, Mr. Watson laughing about having seen one or another at an honest-to-god drive-in when he was in high school, and Mrs. Watson chirping that everything old is new again.
Devon's parents are really nice, but not in the way where they let everyone do anything they want at their house or the way like they're trying extra hard to be nice because they're hiding how much they hate each other and/or their lives. They're nice in a way that feels genuine to Luke even if he reads them with his TP.
Tim says there's a difference between Nice and Kind, and that people can be one or the other or both or neither. Tim is both, Luke assesses privately. Mr. and Mrs. Watson are both, too. That usually makes him feel safe at their house, that one time a few months ago when he needed Tim to exfiltrate him from Devon's sleepover notwithstanding.
So anyway, they've eaten an early dinner (pizza and salad, even though Mrs. Watson said that tonight could be an all-junk-food-night if they wanted since it was a special occasion) and are posted up in Devon's room with the string lights above and behind them and a curtain taped to the doorframe to keep the hall lights from leaking in and ruining the spooky mood. They're each in a bean bag chair and their snacks are all perfectly in reach. They're ready. Thunder claps outside. It's perfect.
The rain finally starts, pouring down in sheets. And that's when it happens.
It's not a clap of thunder; it's not Devon reaching over to playfully shove Luke to steal some of his gummy worms; it's his headache moving up from a 3 to a 4, the air pressure dropping just a little more, and the smell of the Twizzlers as Devon opens his bag.
Instead of the title credits to the movie, Luke sees Tony's face. Feels, inside his own head, the sick delight as he turns a dial from 21% to 0%. Chokes on the candy in his mouth. Hears Devon screaming for his mom and then there's light flooding back into the room and Luke hits the back of his head on the wall as he tries desperately to press himself deeper into the corner he's shaking in. All he knows is that the woman coming toward him has pale skin and dark, curly hair and is reaching for him. There's no air for him to breathe, but there is still some in his lungs, and he screams when she gets too close. He can see the stun gun in her hand. He can see the anger in her eyes. He knows he's not there but he can't believe it in this moment. Maybe the last half a year has been a fever dream induced by the shots for dots. He's been here, in this office, this lab, this chair the whole time, strapped down and dreaming of a kinder world because he'll never get to experience one again. He'll die here. He'll suffer for the rest of his life and then he'll die here.
A familiar scent wafts toward him and he manages a small breath when it hits his nose. The woman isn't talking anymore. The other boy isn't begging him to be ok anymore. He can hear a voice, low and soothing and concerned, and he reaches out his TP to brush against the mind that wasn't here before.
He blinks through his tears and Tony's face - Tony's hands on his neck, on the dial, in his hair - they're gone the way a reflection in a lake ripples away when the water gets disturbed. Gentle hands cover his as Tim's face swims into view. He's safe, he's safe, they're both safe, and Luke's head hurts and his head is spinning and his chest is burning and he can't help but let out a sob. And another. And another.
And then Tim's strong, gentle hands are pulling him in and Luke is crying like he hasn't already cried a hundred times about the worst two weeks of his life, tucking his face into the junction between Tim's shoulder and neck and clutching the back of his shirt so he can't put any space between them and Luke can't fall back into the darkness. Tim's voice resolves into actual words:
"I'm here, kid. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." Tim presses his nose into Luke's hair and murmurs 'sweetheart's and 'Luke's and 'safe now's and holds him close until Luke stops shaking and the world stops spinning and the ground is solid under him once more.
Luke pulls away, taking the small, huffing breaths that come after you cry the hardest you've ever cried in your life. He doesn't let go of Tim's shirt, and Tim doesn't move far enough away to make him. He stares into Tim's face for a moment, studying him, assuring himself that this is the real part and the place he just clawed his way out of was the nightmare. Tim smoothes his hair and cups the side of his neck and says
"It's me, bud."
Luke looks away finally and sees Devon and his mom and dad huddled together behind Tim. Devon is crying. His parents look like they're about to. Something glass is smashed into the carpet next to the bean bag Luke had been in, and for the first time Luke sees that his hands are bleeding. He's getting blood all over Tim's shirt.
"S- sorry," he gasps out, looking to the Watson family and then to Tim and then back. He tries to make his hands let go but he can't. "I- m so sorry, I-" his eyes flicker from the broken glass to his friend to Tim, to Mr. and Mrs. Watson and back to the glass. He's so sweaty and so cold and so tired and so mad at himself.
Tim presses their foreheads together so Luke can't look anywhere but him, so Luke's brain stops winding itself back up.
"Can you stand up, Luke?" he asks, once Luke is breathing in a more normal way again. He's still shaking, but now it's from exhaustion and cold instead of overwhelming fear. Luke tries to stand with Tim's help but his legs just won't hold him.
"I can't," he answers, shame coloring his voice and his cheeks. Tim soothes him, tells him it's ok. He carries Luke over to Devon's desk chair even though all Luke wants is to fold himself up so small that no one can look at him ever again. Tim's hands are so warm as he wraps them back around Luke's, and Luke finds that he's glad for this proof that at least the cold he feels isn't just in his head.
Mrs. Watson appears at Tim's side with their first aid supplies and Tim cleans both of their hands and Luke's foot - also bleeding, apparently - and bandages the worst of Luke's cuts. Tim grabs his jacket off of the floor and wraps it around him. It's a different state, a different month, a different jacket, but it smells like Tim and Outside and a long-ago hug and the first moments of relief that he might ever be ok again, and it settles the wild animal in Luke's chest a little bit more.
He swipes at his face, shooting glances at Devon and his parents and trying to understand what he sees in their eyes but all he can recognize is fear.
"I'm sorry," he says again, mad that he can't just be ok and mad that he ruined the very fun weekend he and his friend had been looking forward to and mad that even though he made it out of The Institute it will never leave him alone. Mad that it destroyed him in a way that means he wrecks everything he touches, now. Mad, mad, mad in a way that just makes him so tired and so sad. "I'm so sorry."
Tim wraps an arm around him and helps him up. He can feel his legs again. He can hold his own weight, or at least part of it. Tim's a lot better now, but Luke still doesn't want him exerting himself too much. Doesn't want Tim carrying him down the stairs and to his truck even though Luke feels like he could close his eyes right now and wake up in the spring.
They have to pause halfway down the stairs, which is humiliating. Tim sits next to him, even tucks him closer for the half a minute they spend resting. When Tim pulls him back to standing, he feels someone brush by him. He's surprised that it's Devon, who stops in front of them and helps brace him for the last 6 steps. Luke is miserable, and he feels worse when his friend moves to his side at the bottom of the stairs and he can see he's still crying, face pale but splotched with red.
"I'm sorry," Luke says again, but Devon shakes his head furiously.
"Don't-," he starts, his voice breaking. "It's not like you were being a jerk or you wanted to scare me or anything like that. You're my best friend," he ends as they get to the front door, "and something bad happening in your brain isn't gonna make us less best friends."
Luke has tears in his eyes again and he feels Tim let him go so he can fully hug the other boy.
"Thanks. Sorry. Thanks," he says as they pull away and he's back in Tim's hold.
"We can try again another weekend maybe?" Devon asks hopefully, looking back at his parents and then to Tim and Luke.
"That's a great idea, sweetheart," his mom says, and from Luke's side, Tim smoothes a hand over Devon's hair. That makes Luke feel kind of warm inside and a glimmer of hope sneaks through his exhaustion.
"Yeah," Luke nods, his eyelids starting to feel too heavy. He turns toward Tim as he's saying, "another weekend soon," and even though he's 15 years old and Tim was almost dead six weeks ago, he feels an arm under his knees and he's lifted off the ground, his face tucked back into the neck of the man who can make all of Luke's nightmares go away.
He feels himself get buckled in, and then jolts back to wakefulness as Tim turns off the engine in their driveway. He's fine for about three steps, but Tim is holding him up again by the time his knees start to give out for the millionth time. Tim helps him into his room and sits him on his bed, and Luke panics because he doesn't want to be alone, can't be alone, please.
Tim shushes him, cupping his face and smoothing his hair and promising, "I'm not leaving you, kiddo. Not leaving. Just getting you some different clothes," and Luke only then realizes that he got blood on himself, too.
He lets go of Tim even though it's so hard and he's so scared, but Tim keeps his promises and he only goes to Luke's dresser and digs out another pair of sweats and another sleep shirt. He helps Luke limp into his own room just next door, and he vanishes into his closet to change while Luke slowly changes, sitting on the bed. He gets his clean sweats on and is halfway into his new shirt before he sort of tips over onto Tim's bed and thinks about how it smells like Tim here and nothing like a lab or a doctor's office or his own blood or his own sick.
Tim is back, in new sleep clothes of his own, and Luke barely even feels embarrassed that Tim has to help him get his second arm to come out the arm hole instead of the bottom. Tim never makes him feel bad. Tim never tells him he shouldn't need help when he does.
He's crying again, and he's so tired of crying, but Tim pulls him close and wraps the blankets around them and just lets him.
"Why won't they leave me alone?" he asks, and his voice sounds as broken as he feels. "Why does it still hurt all the time?"
Luke can't see Tim, tucked into him the way he is, but he feels the man shake his head and knows without checking that he's almost as sad as Luke is. That he's probably crying, too.
"I don't know, Luke," he answers, kissing his temple and holding him even tighter. "I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know."
Luke hears the front door open and Wendy’s voice call out, and with a sinking feeling he realizes that she and Tim had Plans and he’s ruined something for Tim - for both of them - again. Tim must be a mind reader, now, because he shushes him again, shaking his head and saying,
“It’s all right.” and that still makes Luke cry worse.
Wendy rounds the corner in a pretty dress and with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, gets one good, 5-second-long look at them and turns on her heel.
“I’m sorry,” Luke says again, like it’s all he can say now, “I’m sorry,” as Tim says
“No. Nothing to be sorry about.” and Wendy comes back into the room in sweats and a big t-shirt with three bottles of water, leaves the overhead light on and climbs into bed with them. He feels them kiss over his head, and then she rests her head on the top of his and hugs them both so so tight.
“Your fun weekend,” she laments, smoothing the back of his hair just like Tim does, and Luke gets out the words
“We’re gonna try again. Another weekend,” before he has to bury his face so he can pretend no one is looking at him cry like an over-tired toddler in his dad’s arms.
“Good,” she says, settling in next to them, adding to the safe bubble that Luke is ensconced in with her hug and her perfume and the sincerity in her voice. “Devon’s a good boy. I’m glad you have friends like him.”
Luke nods, eyes closing, held safely in Tim’s arms, with Wendy rubbing his back and soothing Tim because this episode of Luke’s wasn’t a joy ride for him, either, and as he falls asleep Tony can’t even reach him in his dreams.